


This Must Be The Place

by cuttooth



Series: This Must Be The Place [1]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: 3 Weeks Fic, But it sure does help, Communication, Domestic Fluff, M/M, Softness, love doesn't fix everything, set between 159 and 160
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-01
Updated: 2019-11-01
Packaged: 2021-01-16 02:20:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21263495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuttooth/pseuds/cuttooth
Summary: “You said – you said we were going home,” Martin says softly.“I did,” says Jon, and is grateful that Martin doesn’t comment on him calling the Archiveshome. “I – I don’t really know where to go. I, uh, I don’t have a flat anymore, I don’t think. We could find a hotel?”“Let’s go to my place,” says Martin. His hand squeezes Jon’s, more gently than before. Most importantly, Jon notes, he doesn’t let go.*Jon and Martin go home for a little while.





	This Must Be The Place

**Author's Note:**

> current mood: fingers jammed in my ears pretending episode 160 was only 5 minutes long
> 
> I originally set out to cover the whole three weeks of domestic bliss in this fic, but only got through the first four days, and with a tragic lack of cows. I will definitely have to remedy that.
> 
> Title is of course from the song of the same name by the inimitable Talking Heads, though I recommend [this beautiful cover](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tBPCvU5V8Ds) by Kishi Bashi for maximum softness.

_ “Home is where I want to be _  
_ But I guess I’m already there” _  
Talking Heads – This Must Be The Place (Naïve Melody)

The sand shifts beneath their feet, firms to concrete. The smell of salt fades. They walk out of the clinging mist into a street in the rain, beneath dripping lamp posts and with police lights reflecting off the dark, wet road.

“Where are we?” Martin asks. He’s shivering in just a thin shirt. It’s good, Jon thinks; he can feel the cold again. His hand is chilled where it clasps Jon’s.

“We, uh, we should be in the Archives, but we’re not,” says Jon, eloquently. He peers past the strobing red and blue lights. “I think we’re right by the Institute, though.”

“Oh god, the police are there, the – the Sasha thing!” Martin’s voice goes sharp with panic, and his fingers tighten painfully around Jon’s. Jon grips back in a way he hopes is reassuring.

“Not just her. There were hunters as well. Daisy and Basira stayed to hold them off, while I – ” _ While I went to find you, _ he doesn’t say, because Martin doesn’t need to feel guilt about that. It was Jon’s choice.

“Do you – you probably need to go in there, right? Find out what happened?” Martin’s voice is artificially cheerful, and Jon can see the anxiety on his face. Being around a lot of people, especially strangers, isn’t what Martin needs right now. He shakes his head.

“I’ll call Basira when we get somewhere safe,” he says. “Find out if…well, hopefully they’re okay.” Hope is something that’s in short supply these days, but god, Martin is standing here beside him. If that’s possible, then anything is.

“You said – you said we were going home,” Martin says softly. 

“I did,” says Jon, and is grateful that Martin doesn’t comment on him calling the Archives _ home. _ “I – I don’t really know where to go. I, uh, I don’t have a flat anymore, I don’t think. We could find a hotel?”

“Let’s go to my place,” says Martin. His hand squeezes Jon’s, more gently than before. Most importantly, Jon notes, he doesn’t let go.

“Oh, right! Good idea. As long as you don’t mind me, uh, getting into your space?”

Martin casts him a look that’s a shadow of the withering glares he used to give Jon any time he caught him trying to squash a spider. It’s good, Jon thinks.

“Come on,” Martin says, and tugs on Jon’s hand. He doesn’t let go.

Jon fumbles in his pockets for cash at the Tube station; his Oyster card vanished while he was dead and he hasn’t got around to replacing it. He gets a ticket and Martin swipes his own card. Martin’s hand is still locked in his, and neither of them have acknowledged it yet but it doesn’t feel awkward. Martin’s hand is larger than Jon’s, and is starting to gradually warm with Jon’s body heat.

They find seats on the half-empty train and Jon is startled when Martin’s head rests lightly against his shoulder. Martin gives an audible sigh.

“Is this all right?” he asks belatedly. Jon swallows the words he wants to say, to shout to the world, that this is more than all right, it’s the most wonderful thing that could happen to him, that he wants Martin’s curls tickling his chin for all eternity. Instead he clears his throat carefully.

“Of course.”

They don’t talk as the earth rumbles around them. Jon thinks Martin might be asleep, except his hand is still gripping Jon’s firmly, as if reassuring himself Jon is still there. Or that _he’s_ still there. Jon rubs his thumb over the knob of bone at the base of Martin’s wrist, the fragile skin there.

Part of him can scarcely believe he’s allowed to do this, that Martin is _ here, _ after all this time. The Lonely feels something like a bad dream that happened to someone else, the cold and fog and Peter Lukas’ taunting voice _ how much do you really know each other? _ The hot spatter of blood across Jon’s face that dissipated like sea foam, leaving no trace behind. Jon tries to feel something about Peter’s death, about knowing that he _ killed _ him, but all he can feel is relief that Martin is safe. Perhaps there’ll be more, later.

The announcement for the next station rasps through the speakers. Martin lifts his head from Jon’s shoulder.

“Come on,” he says. “We need to change.”

*

The air in Martin’s flat is cold and musty. There’s a tied up bag of recycling by the door, a single plate and some cutlery long dry on the draining board. The plant sitting on the windowsill looks wilted, but salvageable. It feels like a place where someone sleeps sometimes.

“Sorry,” says Martin, though for what Jon can’t tell. “I haven’t spent much time here, recently.”

“I’m not really in a position to say anything, considering I’ve been living in the Archives.” And all right, it’s not Jon’s best joke, but he doesn’t think it warrants the sad look Martin gives him. Martin goes to turn on the central heating, and Jon reluctantly releases his hand as he does; he can admit that it would be impractical to follow Martin _ everywhere _ he goes. Jon puts on the kettle, and on a whim, half fills a mug with water and pours it into the dry plant pot. The soil drinks the water eagerly.

“There,” Jon tells the plant. “You’ll be right as rain in no time.”

When he turns around, Martin is watching him with a fond, tilted smile.

“All right?” he asks curiously.

“Yeah,” Martin says. “I just never thought I’d see you talking to a potted plant, that’s all.”

Jon can’t help laughing at that, and when the kettle boils he makes tea for them both. There’s no milk, but he adds lots of sugar, the way his grandmother used to do when he was feeling poorly, and brings the two mugs over to the sofa. Martin cradles his mug in his hands, warming them, and blows the steam from the surface before he takes a drink. His eyes are distant. Jon wants to say something to him. Something that will make the last year and more they’ve been apart unimportant. That will take away the grief and hurt and fear Martin’s suffered. There are no words like that, of course, and Jon feels helpless without them. Words are what he’s always had.

Instead, he rests one hand carefully on Martin’s shoulder, trying to keep the connection that’s grounded them both since they returned to the world. Martin turns to look at him, and his eyes hold Jon’s, gray-blue and lovely, and it occurs to Jon that he would really like to kiss Martin right now.

“Martin…” he begins, and then remembers with a jolt: “Oh hell, I need to call Basira.”

He pulls out his phone and starts to get up, to go in the other room so Martin doesn’t have to worry about this. Martin’s hand grabs his wrist, tugging him insistently back down.

“Call her here,” he says, a serious expression on his face. “I want to know as well.”

Jon dials Basira’s number and puts her on speaker phone. She sounds tired, and when he tells her he’s with Martin, he can almost hear her eyebrows raising in surprise.

“Oh, right!” she says. “That’s – that’s great, Jon.”

“Hi, Basira,” says Martin, and her voice is gentle when she says:

“Hi, Martin. Good to have you back.”

“Basira,” Jon says urgently. “What happened? Where’s Daisy?” 

“Gone,” she says shortly. “I don’t know where. She - she took on the hunters by herself. And the Sasha thing. They all vanished. She - ” A low, ragged sound comes over the line. “I lost her. I lost her.”

Jon feels his heart sink as he understands what she means. _ Daisy._ He opens his mouth and nothing comes out but a pained exhale. And then Martin’s hand is closing around his, solid and warm, and Martin says:

“Are you at the Institute? We can come down.”

“No, I - they let me leave. I’m at my - I’m fine. I just have to go back tomorrow for an interview. Best you two don’t show your faces at the Institute, though, it’s a crime scene. Police want to talk to everyone.”

“We haven’t done anything,” Martin protests, and Basira snorts. 

“Maybe not, but one of you was a murder suspect a while ago, and the other was involved in the arrest of the _ actual _ murderer, who just so happens to have escaped from prison and gone missing. Like I said, best you don’t show your faces. It could get messy. Probably best you get out of London altogether for a while.”

“Right,” says Jon, finding his voice at last. “Thanks, Basira. Are you...okay?”

“Fine,” she says shortly. “Stay put where you are for now, and don’t do anything to draw attention. I’ll figure out some options. I’ll be in touch, yeah?”

She hangs up abruptly, and Jon stares at the phone, a cold feeling settling in the pit of his stomach. _ God, Daisy. _Martin’s fingers squeeze his tightly. 

“It’s not your fault,” he says. Jon looks at him, and his expression is firm. Jon doesn’t argue, he’s too worn out and worn down. He just holds onto Martin’s hand as if it’s some sort of charm against the horrors of the world. 

Martin turns the television on to the news, and a stock photo of the Magnus Institute appears under a scrolling news ticker. _ No information yet, _ the bold text claims, _ about the incident earlier today where shots were fired at the Chelsea location. _ The feed then cuts to a grim faced reporter in front of the police cordon, reminding everyone that the Magnus Institute has been the site of two murders in the past three years, and speculating as to its aura of tragedy.

Martin turns the television off, and they finish their tea in silence as the flat warms up around them. Abruptly, Martin’s stomach growls, startling a half laugh out of Jon. Martin gives him a rueful smile.

“Not all of us can live on statements, you know.” 

“We don’t _ actually _ know I can live without food,” Jon starts to protest.

_ “Joking, _Jon,” Martin tells him, and that fond expression is back on his face. “There’s a really good Indian place just down the street?” 

“I’ve never been able to say no to a good rogan josh,” says Jon, and Martin beams.

Each of them tries to insist on being the one to go and get the food, until eventually they laugh at the absurdity of it and both go. Their hands are still entwined as they walk down the street, and Jon knows they’ll have to talk about this eventually. It’s too important not to. For now, though, he’s happy to just enjoy it, and Martin doesn’t seem inclined to question it either. 

The food is as good as Martin promised, and Jon surprises himself with the amount he eats. Martin keeps putting things on his plate for him to try, pakoras and aloo gobi and biryani, and asks what Jon thinks as he eats them. It’s lovely, just sharing a meal with Martin, talking about nothing, protesting playfully as Martin swipes sauce off his plate with a hunk of naan bread. It’s...probably the nicest thing that’s happened to Jon in a long time. 

After dinner, they find themselves yawning over more tea, this time with milk from the corner shop (the elderly woman working behind the counter had greeted Martin by name, and with such warmth and concern for his recent absence that Jon’s heart swelled). It’s early still, but, well, it’s been rather a day. Jon meets Martin’s gaze, and smiles as he tries to stifle a yawn.

“Time for bed?” he suggests, and Martin agrees, though reluctantly. Jon gets it. Something in him desperately doesn’t want to let Martin out of his sight, as if he might disappear back into the Lonely. Ridiculous, of course, but the thought of it makes his chest hurt.

Martin gets sheets from the airing cupboard and insists on making up the sofa over Jon’s protests that he can do it himself. 

“You’re a guest,” Martin tells him. “My mum did teach me _ some _ manners, you know.”

In the bathroom, Jon changes into the too large pajamas Martin loaned him, and brushes his teeth with a spare toothbrush. When he goes back out to the living room, Martin is lingering in his own pajamas, looking anxious.

“Do you need anything else?” he asks. “Another pillow, or - or water, or anything?”

“I’m fine, thank you Martin. You should get some rest.”

“Right. Night, then.”

“Goodnight, Martin.” Jon ignores the urge to say _no, don't go,_ as Martin retreats into the bedroom. He gets under the blankets, shifting to make himself comfortable, and sees the light in the bedroom go off, leaving the flat in darkness. He sighs, and closes his eyes.

*

Jon doesn’t know what time it is when he wakes, his heart thumping anxiously. Street lights are shining in through the blinds, and he is utterly certain that Martin needs him. What’s given him that certainty, Jon has no idea, but he knows it like he knows his own bones. He throws off the blankets and pads quickly across to Martin’s bedroom door. He knocks gently.

“Martin?” he ventures quietly. There’s a small, choked sound from inside, and Jon doesn’t wait. He pushes the door open. The bedroom is dimly illuminated by the sodium glow outside, and in the faint light, Jon sees Martin sitting up in bed. He can only make Martin out in grayscale, all his color and brightness washed away by the dark, and Jon is painfully reminded of the Lonely once again. Martin is crying, tears shining on his cheeks even in the dim light.

“Martin...what’s wrong?”

Martin huffs a laugh that’s more than half a sob, and wipes his hands over his face, embarrassed. 

“Jon,” he says, his voice wobbling but trying to sound normal. “Are you all right?”

“Am I - Martin, you’re crying.” Jon hears the breaking note in his own voice, and takes a step towards the bed.

“It’s nothing,” Martin starts to say, wiping his cheeks again. “I just - it’s silly, I had a bad dream, and when I woke up I thought I was on my own again. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.”

And that is apparently the limit of what Jon can take, because before he realizes it he’s climbed onto Martin’s bed and taken him in his arms. Martin makes a low, wounded sound and clings to him. His body shakes with sobs, trembling in Jon’s arms. Jon holds him close as he can, hears himself murmuring nonsense words of comfort, his hands stroking over Martin’s back and shoulders and up into his hair. 

“It’s okay,” he says, over and over. “It’s okay. I’m not going anywhere, I promise. I’ll never leave you alone again.”

After a few minutes the sobs die away, and Martin relaxes against him, his face pressing into the crook of Jon’s neck. His breath is warm, his hands strong where they hold onto Jon’s back. 

“Stay with me?” he says, very quietly, as if he’s afraid to ask. Jon hurts for the courage it takes Martin to ask that of him; to ask anything of anyone, when he’s so used to not having anything that he wants. 

“I promise,” Jon says, as if it was a choice rather than an inevitability. “I promise.”

They rearrange themselves under Martin’s duvet, face to face. Jon can see Martin’s eyes shining in the almost-dark, and wonders what Martin sees looking back at him. Martin’s hand finds his under the covers, twining their fingers together. Bold, Jon tugs Martin’s from beneath the duvet and pulls it up to press a kiss to his knuckles. He hears Martin’s sharp intake of breath, his fingers curling reflexively over Jon’s.

“Jon…” he whispers, and shifts closer, and there’s a moment that hangs there, silent and momentous, before their mouths press clumsily together. Jon’s heart thunders in his chest, his fingers trembling where they come up to touch Martin’s cheek, very gently. Martin makes a soft sound into his mouth, and when they finally pull apart, his eyes are bright and beautiful in the darkness. 

“What I said,” Martin says. “I meant it. But I do. I still do. Jon - ”

His voice cracks, and Jon pulls him close again, tucks Martin’s head against his shoulder and holds onto him as tight as he can. His heart is still pounding, and how can this be so much harder than letting Martin _ see _ him, letting himself be flayed open to the soul so Martin could understand how much Jon needed him? Words are what Jon’s always had, but he’s never really been all that good with them, has he? Not when it matters. 

“I - I love you,” he whispers against Martin’s ear, like it’s some precious secret only for the two of them. “I love you.” 

The sound Martin makes at that is tiny and fragile, and Jon aches with it. 

“I love you,” he says again, because he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to say it enough to make up for everything. Martin’s arms tighten around him.

“Jon...” Martin’s voice is soft and wondering, as if he can scarcely believe this is real. _ You saw me, _ Jon wants to tell him. _ You saw me, and what you saw was me loving you. _But he’ll say the words, as clear and as often as he can, because it’s important. It’s the most important thing. 

He holds Martin close and warm until they both fall asleep. Jon’s dreams are terrible as always, but Martin sleeps peacefully, so everything is okay.

The next morning the flat is warm and almost cheery in the early sunshine. Martin greets him with a shy kiss on the cheek, and the simple gesture makes Jon’s heart swell. Martin opens a window to freshen the air, and Jon makes tea that they drink while listening to the sounds of normal life outside. Jon thinks the plant looks a little less wilted today.

*

They go three days without hearing anything from Basira. They spend the time quietly, mindful of her warning about not drawing attention to themselves. Jon flicks through a couple of Martin’s books, and they play Scrabble and Rummikub by their own hodgepodge rules, since Martin’s long since lost the booklets that come with them. They go shopping, and Jon cooks a fairly creditable chicken stew, which Martin treats as some sort of minor miracle. Jon’s not sure if it’s because he doesn’t cook much himself, or because he never expected Jon to, but in either case the praise is gratifying. 

They talk, a lot, mostly about small and unimportant things, offering little pieces of themselves back and forth freely. Jon learns about Martin’s volunteer work with the RSPCA (not for a while, what with everything, but he wants to get back to it some day), and his interest in pulp sci fi, and his love of everything anachronistic and retro (analogue over digital every time, he insists). 

For his part, he shares his interest in fossils (he’s been building his collection since he was twelve; he rather hopes it’s still in storage), and his love of classic horror films (he finds _ The Thing _ on telly one night and insists they watch it; Martin claims to enjoy it, though he spends a lot of the best scenes with his face pressed into Jon’s shoulder). It’s nothing deep or earth-shaking, but Jon thinks they’ve had enough of earth-shaking for a while. It’s nice, sharing these everyday things, knowing that they see each other a little more completely every day.

All in all, it’s the most free Jon’s felt in years. He knows it can’t last; they’re sort-of-but-not-quite hiding from the police; Daisy and the hunters and the Not Sasha are missing; and Elias - _ Jonah Magnus - _is at large, undoubtedly with some horrifying plan in the works. They need to be ready when he shows his face again. But still, he can’t help reveling in this reprieve. He is giddy with the knowledge that Martin is _ here_, that Martin loves him and wants to be with him. The handful of careful, shy kisses they trade that first full day are precious as jewels, held close to Jon’s heart.

It’s in the middle of the second day when Jon abruptly realizes that he can simply reach over and kiss Martin, _ whenever he likes;_ he doesn’t have to wait for some lingering moment of meaningful silence to fall between them. The revelation is startling, and he immediately tests it, leaning across the sofa to where Martin is working on a crossword with an expression of intense determination. 

“Hi, Jon,” Martin says, looking up at him, one eyebrow quirking in amusement.

“Hi,” Jon says, and kisses him. When he leans back Martin looks surprised and pleased, his cheeks flushed pink. 

“Oh,” he says, setting his crossword on the table, and pulls Jon to him. They spend most of that afternoon sprawled out on the sofa, kissing slow and tender, hands running carefully through hair, or stroking cheeks and bare arms, or just holding onto each other. It’s been a long time since Jon has kissed anyone, and the easy intimacy of it takes his breath away. There are a few missteps, noses bumping and necks twisting at uncomfortable angles, but it’s all right. They have time to figure it out, and Jon thinks he could happily spend the rest of his life learning how to best kiss Martin Blackwood. 

It’s while they’re settling into bed on the third night (they haven’t even contemplated sleeping apart since the first night) that it occurs to Jon that he hasn’t read a statement in days. As he thinks of it, the hunger tugs at his awareness, but not nearly as strongly as he might have expected. He considers that maybe Peter’s statement has sustained him for longer than a normal human’s would, but something about that explanation feels...off. He’s not going to question it, though. Getting statements from the Archives isn’t going to be possible until the police clear the premises, and he isn’t considering any other options. There _aren't_ any other options. 

“What are you worrying about?” Martin asks. 

“What?”

“When you get that little scrunch between your eyebrows, it means you’re worrying about something. Always has done.”

Jon is torn between amazement that Martin notices such little details about him - _ always has done, _ apparently - and determination to not worry Martin unnecessarily.

“Oh,” he says, teasing. “Just worrying that if I keep beating you at Scrabble you’ll refuse to play anymore. Then what would I do to stoke my ego?”

“Oi!” Martin says with mock annoyance. “We agreed no Scrabble talk in the bedroom, for the sake of peace. And anyway you’re not that many games ahead.”

“Not yet,” Jon smirks, and catches the pillow that Martin tosses at his head. Jon ends up getting thoroughly kissed, and only feels a little guilty about diverting the conversation. There’s no need to start worrying about something that’s a positive; he’ll tell Martin if and when there’s something actually _ wrong_.

*

Martin’s down at the corner shop on the fourth day when Jon’s phone finally buzzes. He answers it, thrumming with anxiety:

“Any news?”

“Hi to you too,” Basira says sardonically. Jon shakes his head.

“Sorry - sorry Basira. I’ve just - _ we’ve _ been worried. Not knowing what’s going on.”

“Yeah, sorry I haven’t been in touch sooner. Police have been crawling all over the Institute, interviewing everyone, digging through the files. They’ve been keeping an eye on me too, I think, so I had to be careful.”

“Have they, uh, been down in the tunnels yet?”

“A bit? I think they’re freaked out by the place, which is only sensible. They’re pulling in more sectioned officers so they can send teams down there, but they’re not really telling me anything.”

“Right. And, uh, no sign of Daisy?”

“Nothing yet.” Basira’s tone is flat, and invites no further discussion, but Jon has to ask.

“If - if you want, I could try to...see where she is?”

“No. She wouldn’t want you doing your...monster stuff on her behalf. And...neither do I. Speaking of which, you’ve been keeping it under wraps all right?”

“Oh, yes. Fine. I’ve been...oddly okay, actually. Not even all that hungry. And I have Martin to keep an eye on me.”

“Well, I’ll get you some dry rations from the Archives soon as I’m able,” Basira says, then: “Martin’s okay?”

“He is,” Jon says, and he doesn’t think he could keep the soft, fond tone out of his voice if he tried. He doesn’t want to, anyway. “He’s...so strong, Basira. Stronger than I think I would be, after all that time with the Lonely gnawing at him.”

“And do we have to worry about Peter Lukas coming back?” 

“No,” Jon tells her with finality, and she gives an approving _ hmm. _

“Good. Glad you two are looking after each other. And speaking of which, that’s why I called. Once I was sure I wasn’t...under observation, I went to Daisy’s place and found info about some of her old safe houses.”

“Safe houses?” Jon always assumed those were a thing people only had in over the top spy thrillers, but apparently Daisy had _ more than one _ of them. 

“Places she could lie low when she needed to. You probably don’t want to ask any more than that. I’m sending you to her place up in Scotland.”

“Scotland? I hardly think we need to go all that way - we’ve been fine here for the past few days.”

“You can’t stay at Martin’s flat, you’re too easy to find. And I’m not just talking about the police.”

“How did you…? I didn’t tell you we were at Martin’s.”

“You didn’t, did you?” Basira says dryly. “And if I can find you, other things can too. Hunters. Monsters with a grudge. Best you’re off the grid as much as possible.”

“What about you?”

“I’m not the Archivist,” Basira snorts. “I’m probably safer if you’re _ not _ around.”

“Right...if you’re sure it’s our best move.”

“I know more about this stuff than you do. Trust me.”

“I do,” says Jon, and there’s a startled pause on the phone before Basira clears her throat. 

“Okay, here’s the address - you got a pen?”

*

Martin comes back from the corner shop laughing, because Mrs. Sheshadri asked him how his nice young man was doing. 

“You’ve got her seal of approval,” he tells Jon, flushed and pleased. “Though I’m not sure where she got _ nice _ from.” 

“Basira called,” Jon tells him. 

“Oh, yeah?” He tilts his head with interest. Jon tells him about their conversation, and when he’s finished Martin nods thoughtfully.

“Makes sense, I suppose. When do we leave?” 

“You seem awfully calm about going on the lam.”

“Well it’s hardly the worst thing that’s happened in the past few years, is it?” Martin laughs. “And it won’t be forever. Just until we figure some things out. And...we’ll be together. So it’s okay.”

Jon doesn’t know why, but the matter of fact way Martin says those words shatters something inside him, some glass-thin defense that has somehow held until now. He feels a thick, poisonous tide rising in his gut, years’ worth of guilt and grief suddenly welling up out of him. His eyes sting with tears the second before a deep, painful sob wracks his chest. And then he’s crying in the middle of Martin’s living room, great ugly sobs that steal his breath and tear his throat ragged. 

Martin drops his bag of shopping and surges forward, wrapping Jon in his arms with a force and tightness that brooks no argument. Jon shrinks for an instant from letting Martin see him like this, pouring his need and weakness out when Martin has so much to burden him already. It’s not fair. But Martin has him, his arms strong and steady around Jon, not saying anything, just making soft, soothing noises, and it’s too much. Jon sinks against him and cries into Martin’s chest, feeling at once ashamed and helplessly relieved.

After several minutes, the flood subsides, leaving Jon drained and hollow. When he pulls back, Martin lets him, though he doesn’t let go entirely, keeps his arms wrapped loosely around Jon. Jon sniffs, and scrubs his hands across his eyes.

“God,” he says, his voice hoarse. “I’m so sorry, Martin.”

“For being human?” Martin laughs. “Jesus, Jon, after everything you’ve been through, you deserve the odd cry. We both do.”

“No, for - for everything. I - _ fuck_. I was horrible to you, when we first knew each other. For _ ages_. I was such a fucking prick!”

“Yeah, you were a bit,” Martin agrees. “But you were scared as well. We all have our ways of coping. And that isn’t you anymore. If it helps, I didn’t like you much either, to start with? I _ fancied _ you a bit, but I definitely didn’t _ like _ you all that much.”

“But I - god, I sent you out on the Vittery case and you almost got _ killed._”

“Not your fault,” Martin says firmly. “I wanted to impress my boss; it was _ my choice _ to go back to that basement. There’s more than enough guilt to go around, Jon. You need to stop feeling responsible for things you had no control over.” 

Jon stares up at him. Martin’s jaw is set pugnaciously, and there are spots of color high on his cheeks.

“How can you...just forgive me?” he asks. “After - after all of it?” He doesn’t mention how much his absence and his inattention made Martin’s slide into the Lonely far easier; he doesn’t think he needs to.

“I forgave you a long time ago, Jon,” Martin tells him, and his voice is so gentle. “Around the same time I decided that I was going to stop holding you up as some...unattainable crush, and admit that I loved you. The real person that you are, with all your faults.”

“Martin…”

“You don’t get to decide whether you deserve forgiveness or not. If people choose not to, you just have to live with it. And if they do, you have to live with that too.”

“I - thank you, Martin. For forgiving me. I don’t deserve it, but thank you.”

“I love you,” Martin says, shrugging, as if that explains everything. He pulls Jon close again, and Jon buries his face in Martin’s shoulder, inhaling the uniquely Martin smell of him. 

“I still haven’t forgiven you for “za” on the triple word last night, though,” Martin tells him. “That one I’m taking to the grave.”

“It’s a perfectly legal Scrabble word,” Jon mock protests. “Short for pizza.”

“You’re short for pizza,” Martin growls playfully, jostling Jon in his arms. Jon laughs, so immensely grateful for Martin’s kindness and humor and - and just everything _ Martin_.

“Speaking of which, how about pizza tonight? We should probably get going to Basira's safe house tomorrow, and it’ll be easy to clean up after.”

“Sure, we can get some _ zaaa,” _ Martin teases in an exaggerated Californian drawl that sets Jon laughing again. He pulls Martin down and kisses him, and is once again struck by the fact that he gets to do this whenever he wants. He doesn’t think he’s ever done anything in his life to deserve this, but he’s going to spend the rest of his life - however long that is - trying to.

*

They don’t spend long packing. Jon doesn’t have a lot of clothes, just some items he picked up from the local Oxfam and a few of Martin’s clothes that don’t fit him _ too _ badly. It’s serviceable, and better than risking a trip to the Archives, or the exposure of the high street shops. He packs his few belongings carefully, folding them to minimize wrinkling. At least it won’t take him long to unpack when they get to their destination.

Martin, meanwhile, comes from the school of “empty a few drawers into a bag, it’ll all work out” trip preparation. Jon winces internally as Hurricane Blackwood whirls through the bedroom, stuffing clothing haphazardly into his bag, but bites his tongue. Martin can pack however he likes, and if he gets there only to discover he hasn’t brought any pants, Jon certainly won’t say_ I told you so. _

That night they curl up in Martin’s bed for the last time, at least for a while. Martin rests his head against Jon’s shoulder, and stretches an arm across his middle, because his dreams aren’t as bad if he’s making physical contact. For his part, Jon doesn’t mind in the slightest, and takes the opportunity to turn and press a kiss to the top of Martin’s head. 

“What time is the train, again?” Martin asks, his voice already hazy with sleep.

“Quarter past eleven,” Jon tells him, and then blinks, struck with a sudden thought. “What about the plant?”

“What?”

“The _ plant_, Martin. I nursed that plant back from the brink of death, I can’t leave it to die unwatered again.”

“Really? It’s just a plant, Jon.”

“It’s a living thing.”

“Oh, right, not like a spider then.” Martin’s sarcasm lacks bite, and Jon kisses his hair again.

“I stopped killing them after you lectured me. You’re a very good influence on me, Mr. Blackwood.”

“Well thank you, Mr. Sims, but you’re still not taking a bloody pot plant on the train with us.”

“Maybe Basira can come and pick it up…” Jon muses, and Martin sighs.

“Fine,” he says, “I’ll give it to Mrs. Sheshadri before we leave. She’s got green thumbs.”

“She’s a gardener?”

“Oh, avid,” Martin says, and then in an exaggerated stage whisper: “Cannabis!”

Jon can’t tell if he’s joking, and decides he probably doesn’t want to know. He takes Martin’s hand where it’s resting on his abdomen, and holds it in his, running his fingers over the delicate map of veins, the thin bones beneath. 

“I love you,” he says, because he wants to keep saying it, wants to make sure Martin never forgets for even a moment. Martin shifts to look up at him, and the smile on his face is so tender that Jon aches with it.

“I know,” he says, and the way he says it tells Jon that he really does. “I love you, too.”

*

Jon gives a last look around the flat as they get ready to leave. He’s put away the last of the washing up from yesterday, and the windowsill where the plant sat is now empty. A bag of recycling and one of rubbish sit by the front door, to be taken out when they go. Jon feels an odd pang of sorrow about leaving, and he can’t quite place why. They were only here for a few days. This isn’t even _ his _ home. 

_ It might have been, though, _ his brain supplies, and Jon gets it. These past few days, cocooned away from the world, just the two of them - these have been some of the happiest days of his life. For a little while he could pretend that they were just a normal couple, living together in their little flat in Stockwell, eating takeaway and playing Scrabble and sharing a bed. _ Their _ bed.

It couldn’t last, of course. The world is still out there waiting, with all its horrors, and there’s no way to know what’s coming next. And Jon's probably not the sort of person that gets to go back home in the end. 

Martin walks out of the bedroom. He gives Jon a smile that makes his heart skip a beat, and Jon abruptly realizes he's been a fool_._

This flat? This isn’t home. Home is standing right in front of him, smiling crookedly and beautifully, and prepared to go out into the world with him. Not knowing what’s coming next, but willing to face it anyway, because they’re together. 

“Ready to go?” Martin asks, and Jon nods, takes the hand Martin offers and twines their fingers together.

“I’m ready,” he says, and he is. As long as they’re together, he’s ready for anything. 

As long as they’re together, Jon is home. 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on tumblr [@cuttoothed](https://cuttoothed.tumblr.com/), though currently too shook by the finale for any coherency.


End file.
